


Five Slices of Life

by Wildcard



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 04:21:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13605420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildcard/pseuds/Wildcard
Summary: Or 5 chocolates from a chocolate box sampler! All set within the same reincarnated modern AU as my other fic for enviropony - basically 5 drabbles that belong within that verse and fill prompts that were listed in the letter.





	Five Slices of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enviropony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enviropony/gifts).
  * Inspired by [In the Most Unexpected of Places](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13602810) by [Wildcard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wildcard/pseuds/Wildcard). 



**[secrets]**

It’s when their mouths meet (finally, finally), that the weight of memory comes crashing down on Gwaine. One moment, all he knows is the sweetness of Merlin’s lips against his, the dry brush of chapped lips and the tentative little nip of teeth - and the next moment, he’s falling back, driven to his knees by years of memory falling into place.

_His mother, clothes tattered, face worn, digging with her bare hands for roots that they can eat. His father’s shield, painted sigil flaking off. The king’s procession along the High Road and the fat-faced son of the king, neither of whom have ever known hunger or hurt._

_Arthur, golden-haired and blue-eyed, a prince out of legend - and Merlin, the angular-faced squire whose smile makes him more handsome than a thousand princes. Merlin, his only friend. Merlin, whom he’d risk any quest for, dare any danger for._

_Death, slow and painful, forcing him to face how he has failed his friends. He failed the Round Table, he failed his king and worst of all, he failed Merlin._

The harsh sound of his own breaths fill his ears as he comes back to himself. Merlin’s hugging him, murmuring frantic pleas for Gwaine to talk to him, to tell him what’s wrong, and Gwaine looks at him with new knowledge in his eyes.

“Merlin,” he says, and something about his tone makes Merlin draw back and look at him too. 

“...Gwaine.” There is a wealth of relief in that single syllable and Merlin’s eyes hold a question that Gwaine cannot read. But it is Merlin still. Merlin his assistant, Merlin his friend, Merlin who has lived a thousand years and never aged a year.

Gwaine leans in and kisses Merlin again. 

Merlin lets that be answer enough.

**[dragons]**

The tattoo spans the slender expanse of Merlin’s back, stretching over his shoulderblades with the tail snaking down his spine. Two eyes, unblinking and golden, stare at Gwaine and hold the judgment of centuries.

“So this,” Gwaine says as he traces the lines of ink on Merlin’s skin, “Is a dragon.”

“His name is Kilgharrah,” Merlin says, settling his arms under his head. The motion makes the muscles of his back flex, the wings of the dragon seeming to uncurl. “And he is the greatest of all Dragons. He can see the future and forge powerful weapons in his breath.”

“And he’s a tattoo. On your back,” Gwaine says, just in case Merlin has forgotten. 

Merlin sighs and tucks his face into the hollow created by his arms.

“He was dying.” Merlin’s voice is muffled but the pain is clear. “He was old, and he was dying, and he was the last tie I had left to Camelot. He was the only one left alive who even remembered Camelot. I couldn’t let him go.”

“So you turned him into a tattoo that talks to you?” Gwaine smooths his hand down Merlin’s back, rubbing gently, and feels the taut muscles relax.

“I used his blood and ashes to bind him to my body. His soul lives under my skin. He can still speak to me and advise me.” Merlin rolls over, hand sliding over Gwaine’s jaw to pull his head down into a kiss.

“He’ll live again one day, Gwaine. Just as you have.”

Gwaine decides not to ask why Merlin didn’t tattoo any of their blood and ashes onto him. A life as a living tattoo sounds quite terrible to him.

**[sailing]**

The sun beats down on them relentlessly, burnishing Gwaine’s skin. Merlin can practically see the sun soaking into it, browning him like dye everywhere that Gwaine’s skin is posed.

Merlin, on the other hand, is slathered with lotion and struggling to keep hold of a rope within his slippery, sunscreen-coated hands. He’s half-convinced that sailors made up their language just to confuse non-sailors and he’s wholly convinced that Gwaine is making up half the words he uses just to confuse Merlin.

A little magic wouldn’t go amiss right now. Surely they’re far enough from the mainland that nobody will see--

Something hot and wet touches his calf, followed by an excited little boof.

“You don’t count,” Merlin tells the happy little white dog whose tail is wagging back and forth like a metronome. “You’ll never tell anyone if you see me working magic.”

“What, Aithusa snitch? Never.” Gwaine comes over and scoops up the small Maltese dog, kissing the little rounded forehead affectionately. “She’s a good girl, isn’t she? Just like your dragon namesake.”

“She’s too small to be on this boat,” Merlin says through gritted teeth, hauling on the rope as hard as he can. “If she gets swept overboard--”

“I will dive right after her and rescue her as bravely as any Knight would,” Gwaine says, striking a dramatic pose that is only slightly ruined by the small dog that’s worming her way up to his throat to lick up that delicious salty sweat.

Merlin laughs, then jerks his head towards the ropes. “Give me the dog. You fix this. After all, you’re Strength. Apply some of that strength to these ropes.”

Gwaine complies and soon Aithusa’s turned her attentions to Merlin’s throat instead. 

She’s not the dragon that Merlin remembers from so long ago, but she is sweet and loving, just like Gwaine. 

Even her big brown eyes are like his, Merlin decides, and stifles a chuckle at the thought that now he has two puppies to look after.

**[cold mountains]**

“I can’t feel my fingers,” Gwaine says plaintively, holding his hand out for Merlin to inspect. “Do you think they look blue?”

Merlin spares them a glance then returns to carefully stocking the shavings of wood into a cone. “They’re fine, Gwaine.”

“If I get frostbite and they fall off, we’re sunk. Nobody will hire an actor without fingers.” Gwaine rubs his fingers together, then drops to his knees next to Merlin. “Can’t you just -- magic up a fire?”

“Yes, I can,” Merlin says patiently, stacking larger twigs around the cone. The pre-cut slices of wood that came with the cabin come last and Merlin generously interposes pinecones with them for the sake of the smell. “But if there’s nothing for the fire to eat, it’ll burn out.”

When Gwaine doesn’t respond, Merlin glances over him. Gwaine has the fingers of both hands stuffed in his mouth; from the neck of his sweater, the little white head of Aithusa is poking out. The dog has a sweater of her own, one that Gwaine bought her, and a natural fur coat underneath it but none of that stops Gwaine from acting as if she’s going to freeze to death any minute now.

Merlin’s fairly sure Gwaine is just projecting but all the same, having two sets of puppy-dog eyes fixed on him makes Merlin sigh inwardly and cast a quick spell.

Moments later, Aithusa’s prancing around, Gwaine’s got both hands fanned out in front of the fire and Merlin’s basking in a sense of satisfaction that warms him better than any fire ever could.

**[music]**

“Remember the songs we used to sing around the fire?” Merlin asks, half his attention on the little white bundle of fluff that’s roaming over the grass so happily and the other half on Gwaine. Gwaine’s striding alongside him, swinging a stick he picked up from somewhere, and the soft mist blurs his features until he’s all color and noise. Merlin talks more to keep a sense of where Gwaine is than because he is uncomfortable with silence.

“Of course I do,” Gwaine says with a laugh that rings out loud and clear, piercing through the early morning mist. “Remember the one about the tavern maid with the pipe? Arthur banned us from singing that one after he heard it. Said it wasn’t suitable for Knights of the Round Table.”

“He’s going to get a shock when he returns,” Merlin says, beaming broadly at the thought of Arthur’s scandalized expression. He steals another look at the band of red and brown and deep blue that’s Gwaine, then edges just a little closer. Their fingertips brush together and Merlin lets his fingers intertwine with Gwaine’s, holding on as tightly to Gwaine’s hand as he is to Aithusa’s leash. 

“He is,” Gwaine agrees, then pauses. “He’s not here now. We should sing one of those songs for old time’s sake. Practice it in his absence and greet him with it.”

“...Not a bad idea,” Merlin says, the corners of his mouth curling into a sly smile. He doesn’t need Kilgharrah’s powers of foresight to guess what song Gwaine has in mind. “I take it we’ll be singing about a tavern maid and a pipe?”

“The years have dulled my memory, Merlin, but I think I remember him having a very strong reaction to that particular song…” Gwaine’s tone of innocence would fool nobody, least of all his lover twice-over, but Merlin laughs and starts to hum the melody anyway.

The rest of the world has disappeared into the mist. No England, no Albion, no Once and Future King that Merlin must yet find.

It makes him a traitor, Merlin knows, but he can’t help but want to hold onto this domestic bliss just a little longer.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy these! If I'd had more time or this was a longer exchange, I would've tried stitching them all into one fic as a coherent narrative but as it is, please just enjoy them as bite-sized bits of Merlin/Gwaine. Complete with a pet dog because all couples should have a pet. Pets are awesome.


End file.
